


Each a Glimpse

by The_Kapok_Kid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drabble Collection, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 11,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1614017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Kapok_Kid/pseuds/The_Kapok_Kid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short fic and drabble collection. Various characters, pairings, and themes.<br/>Currently: <i>Winky</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coffee And Green Tea - Sirius

“Mmm…” Sirius took another whiff of the Amortentia they had brewed for Potions and sighed blissfully, grey eyes glazing over.

“What do you smell then, Pads?” Remus looked expectantly at his friend, quill poised over his parchment to record the results.

“April showers, apple tart, broomstick wood – Pine, I think…”

“And?”

“Wet dog” said Sirius, scowling mildly as Remus gave out a snort of laughter.

“That’s expected, anyway. There is something else as well, is there not? You don’t usually look so exalted on account of apple tarts or broomsticks, mate.” Remus quirked one eyebrow, and studied Sirius closely. 

Sirius hesitated. “Umm…coffee and – and green tea perfume?”

“Ah.” Remus’ smile was wicked. “Any idea who that might be?”

Sirius made a noncommittal sound and turned to his own parchment. He watched out of the corner of his eye as four places down the house table, Marlene poured milk into her coffee and stirred it delicately with a silver spoon.


	2. Weasley Is Our Prince - Ron

Hugo Weasley stared at the chess board before him, fierce lines of concentration cutting into his forehead. A pink tongue darted out to moisten dry lips as he deliberately ordered his queen three squares to the left.

“Checkmate!” Hugo cried, raising triumphant blue eyes to meet Ron’s own.

“Well done mate, that was fantastic! “Ron tousled Hugo’s red hair and grinned at him. “Gryffindor must win next year; otherwise McGonagall will do her nut! Now, what about a bit of flying before bed?”

“I – I’d rather play another round, Dad.” Hugo’s eyes were wide with anxiety.

“Of course we can”. Ron smiled and set up the board once more, suppressing a sigh.

Hugo had never been interested in flying, despite Ron’s best efforts. It was Rose who had inherited his love of Quidditch, alongside her mother’s intelligence. It worried Ron occasionally, but today he pushed the niggling thoughts aside. _I can always play chess with him_ Ron thought. _Flying doesn’t matter – he’ll always be my little prince._


	3. Better Wizards Than You - Moody

Moody growled in satisfaction as thin silver cords sprang from his wand and wrapped themselves tightly around Evan Rosier. Scrimgeour and Robards immediately sprang forward and roughly manoeuvred the prisoner to his feet, ignoring the stream of invective the young Death Eater hurled at them. They had not moved but three paces forward before Rosier freed himself of the bonds and blasted his two handlers aside with Stunners.

Rosier scrabbled for his wand, eyes crazed with anger, and turned to face Alastor Moody.

Thirty dizzying seconds later, Moody stood panting heavily, clutching what was left of his nose, blood dripping thickly between his fingers. The ground was heated and cracked, rivulets of blood dripped into the fissures and the remnants of Evan Rosier lay scattered everywhere.

Moody grunted, stuck his still-sparking wand into his back pocket and disapparated. 

It was five minutes later at the emergency medical station that he felt a dull throbbing in his rear and looked behind him. His left buttock was missing.


	4. Thou And I Are Too Wise - The Marauders

“So got that, Pete? We’ll write Mary a note, saying that if she goes to the muggle section of the library on Thursday evening, she can find her true love sitting among the poets of yore, entrenched in the wisdom of centuries past!” Sirius poked Peter in the shoulder.

“Yes, Padfoot” Peter muttered. Sirius was going through a dramatic phase, and Peter was beginning to tire of the incessant declarations that followed him everywhere.

“Besides, Padfoot, how do you know that Mary really likes Moony? And what do you know about muggle literature, anyway?”

“Hey, I read!” Sirius looked offended. “I’ve been looking at those books Moony likes – Shakeseer and Byron and whatnot. And I told you, I heard Mary telling Marlene and Lily that she thinks he’s adorable. Mary likes to read too – it’ll be perfect!” Sirius grinned. 

“Anyway” he continued “are you in, or not? If you aren’t, I’ll wait until Prongs gets out of the hospital wing.”

“I’m in, I’m in!” Peter squeaked. The bludger that had put James in the hospital wing with a fractured foot had been an ill wind that did Peter some good – he had been promoted to chief prankster alongside Sirius for three days. He didn’t want to lose that position now.

The plan worked perfectly.

The note was written – devoid of Sirius’ embellishments – and slipped into Mary’s bag the next morning. Sirius and Peter watched her eyes light up as she discovered it at lunch.

On Thursday evening at the library, Remus was buried in _Much Ado About Nothing._ Sirius had recently taken to accompanying him, reading some of the soliloquies and sonnets aloud with many flourishes. Today he was missing. Remus didn’t really mind; he enjoyed the peace.

Two heads poked furtively out from behind a bookshelf several feet away.

“She’s coming!” Peter squeaked loudly, and was promptly squashed by Sirius. They watched as Mary MacDonald walked hesitantly to Remus’ table. He smiled, his brown eyes warm, and gestured to the seat next to him. 

Mary’s eyes widened as she saw the title on Remus’ book. “That’s my favourite play!” she blurted out, and then flushed as Remus looked up. They struck up a conversation after that; halting at first, but growing more comfortable as they discussed the plot.

“Hello!” exclaimed a cheerful voice behind Peter. Sirius and Peter spun around to find James regarding them curiously. His left foot was still bandaged, but he looked fine otherwise. “What’s going on?” 

“We’re trying to get Moony and Mary together” Peter explained. “He likes her, and they both like reading so Padfoot says it’s going to work. Look – they’re talking now, I bet he’ll ask-” 

“They’re talking about Spadeseer – that playwright. That’s not exactly asking her out!” James cut Peter off mid-flow.

Remus and Mary continued to debate on the finer points of Beatrice’s and Benedick’s courting, blissfully unaware of the trio watching them.

 _“Of course_ he’ll ask her out. Just needs a little bit of time. And it’s _Shakeseer_ , James, _not_ Spadeseer” Sirius said, in the voice of one All-Knowing. “I’ve read these things, you know. He didn’t only write plays”. Sirius’ eyes had a fervent expression. “He wrote these beautiful poems called sonnets, all about love and the summer you know, and that is why he is known as The Barf.”


	5. Tendrils - Petunia

She watches the other girl as a hunter watches a tiger; carefully, deliberately, and with no insignificant amount of fear.

She does not understand it the first time it happens. She sits on the floor, playing with her dolls, when the rattle falls off the toddler’s cot and lands beside her. She turns to pick it up, but watches instead as it zooms upwards through the railings of the bed, back into her sister’s hand. She gazes open-mouthed at the red-haired child now sucking the rattle, then shrugs and turns back to her dolls.

Petunia is seven the second time it happens. Five year old Lily has turned her old black hair slides purple, to match the new dress their mother has bought her for Evensong this New Year. Petunia tries hard, alone in her room after the service, staring at her own red hair slide hard enough to hurt her eyes. The plastic slide does not change; seeming to mock her in its crimson lustre. The first seed is thus planted.

The seed grows slowly throughout the years, sprouting tendrils with each new incident; the empty pen that refills itself, the flower petals that change colour, the window mobile that tinkles when the breeze is absent. The culmination occurs when the greasy-haired boy drops the tree branch on her shoulder. Sniffling as her mother gently tends her bruised collarbone, she vows to have nothing more to do with the _freak._

The letter from the old man is gentle, regretful. She knows not if she is ashamed, or enraged, or both. Her pale eyes take in the cloaked men and women on the platform, the owls, the cats and the broomsticks; a world in which she has no part. _Abnormal,_ she thinks, and the first blossom sprouts on the tree.

She watches as the boy with the thick spectacles and laughing hazel eyes carries her sister away in burst of purple fairy dust. She screams when the infant is found on her doorstep and later watches with jaundiced and not unfearful eyes as the boy grows, thin and starved and unloved. Her heart beats faster each time she locks him in his cupboard, unacknowledging of his protests, wholly aware of his innocence. And thus the tree bore its first fruit.

It is when Dudley shakes the boy’s hand that the first autumn occurs. Years later, when she sees her son grown, with children of his own; when a Christmas card arrives from the boy; when the boy himself arrives one day; when she sees the small red-haired girl clutch at her father’s arm, reminiscent of another like her so many years ago, does she realise that the tree has finally withered, and died.

_The first seed and its sprouts of envy were born,_  
 _It bore me a harvest of thistle and thorn._


	6. A Stitch In Time - Alicia Spinnet

Alicia Spinnet paused outside Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. A notice pinned to the large clear window caught her eye. _WANTED: Designers for all forms of witch and wizardwear,_ it said. _Applicants with a background in fashion design or art preferred. Must be able to work exclusively for us. Apply within for spot-interviews. Immediate hire._ Alicia considered the notice for a moment, nibbling her lower lip as she reread it, then exhaled, shrugged her shoulders, pushed open the door and stepped inside.

A bell jangled in the depths of the shop as she stepped over the threshold. A young witch in pale blue robes emerged from behind a behind a screen and stared at Alicia. “Yes?” she inquired coolly.

“I…I’m here for an interview for the position advertised in the window,” Alicia answered; feeling slightly intimidated as she took in the other girl’s raised eyebrow and turned-down lips.

“Wait here,” Blue-robes said, and disappeared into the back of the shop. Alicia stared around the shop as she waited. She had come in every year to purchase her Hogwarts robes, but in the rush of finishing off here and going to buy the rest of the things on the booklists, she had never paid much attention to the surroundings. The shop was large and well-lit, and divided into sections according to the clothing it housed. Immediately past the entrance was the school section, with a low platform on which stood stools for the students to stand and be measured. Next was the Quidditch section, with racks of regular Quidditch robes, and those designed similarly to the kits of the various League teams. Beyond this area was the rest of the shop – ladies’ and gentlemen’s wear – but it was too far away for Alicia to see from where she stood.

She was brought out of her survey of the shop by the appearance of Madam Malkin – who had thankfully left Blue-robes behind – and smiled as the lady bustled towards her.

“Name?” asked Madam Malkin, looking Alicia up and down, a slight frown creasing her brows.

“Alicia Spinnet, Hogwarts, 1996,”Alicia smiled. Madam Malkin seemed pleased with what she saw, for she turned and led the way to a desk in the corner of the shop, and gestured Alicia to a seat in front of her.

“What is your experience with fashion, Miss. Spinnet?” Madam Malkin asked once Alicia was comfortably settled, and had filled out the form that was set down before her. “Do you have any training in this field?”

“I started at the Glasgow Witches’ Institute of Fashion in 1997, a year after I left Hogwarts, and finished my training two years ago.”  
Madam Malkin raised an eyebrow and peered at Alicia rather severely over her spectacles. “The usual period of training is three years, young woman. Why did you take an extra year?”

“I came back to fight in the battle of Hogwarts, Madam. After that, I took a few months off to help Professor McGonagall refurbish the castle and get it ready for the next batch of students.”

“Ah yes, indeed, indeed.” Madam Malkin’s eyes softened slightly the girl’s answer. It had taken the better part of three months to set the building to rights, and even longer to organise admission for the next lot of students. The trust fund for students who could not afford equipment and clothing had all but vanished, so Madam Malkin had undertaken to provide school robes for such students free of charge until the fund could be rebuilt.

Madam Malkin then returned to the form Alicia had filled. “You have ten N.E.W.Ts; with excellent marks in Transfiguration, Charms and Ancient Runes, didn’t you wish to join the Ministry at any point after you left Hogwarts?”

“Not at all,” Alicia answered frankly. “I enjoyed the subjects, of course, but I what I really wanted to study was design.” She hesitated, and then added, “I applied for a job at Madame Pierre’s Boutique in Valros, just after graduation, but they said I lacked the necessary experience.”

“Hmm…and what have you been doing with yourself these two years?”

“I’ve been working as a freelance fashion journalist, Madam. I also send in a few designs for owl-order businesses. It doesn’t pay much, but it was enough to keep myself,” she said honestly.

The corners of Madam Malkin’s mouth twitched upwards in a slight smile at this. She had noticed the shabby shoes and much worn but well-kept casual robes Alicia was wearing. With a flick her wand, she summoned a white satin robe on a mannequin nearby, and held it out to Alicia. “Your design capabilities seem satisfactory, but skills of execution are just as necessary. Take this robe and this pattern, and let me see what you can do with it.”

Alicia took the robe and the proffered design sheet, and stared at it for a few moments with a lowered brow. She then smiled, and with several wordless and complicated movements of her wand, charmed three swirls of blue and purple onto the robe, and added a pattern of black veined autumn leaves on the sleeves.

Madam Malkin looked duly impressed, and a true smile broke out on her face. “Well done, m’dear,” she said genially, offering Alicia her hand. “The position is yours if you want it. You’d like to start right away, I suppose?”

Alicia murmured her thanks as she was led away in a flurry of lilac robes to the back of the shop, to where the racks and tables with party and formal robes were housed. Blue-robes gave a sniff and looked haughtily down her nose as Alicia joined her at her table, and Alicia felt her lips twitch upwards in a wry smile.

The other assistant – a tall young man with a smattering of freckles across his nose – caught the exchange and winked at Alicia, curling the tip of his nose in imitation of Blue-robes.

Alicia grinned at him before turning her attention to the flimsy muslin robes Madam Malkin thrust under her nose. Yes, thought Alicia as she began to work patterns on her cloth, it was not the glamorous career in a boutique she had envisioned, but it was not a bad start at all. In fact, she decided, it was rather good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter of my other Harry Potter story, Esto Perpetua, is up now. If you like the Marauders, you might like to check it out :)


	7. Norberta Norbertson - Charlie

There was a scuffling at the door, followed by a sharp knock. Charlie Weasley let out a sigh as he dropped his quill onto the reports on his desk, opened the door and stood back as his two friends – looking extremely wet and wild – stumbled inside, carrying a large box between them. 

“Ve haff the dragon vith us,” panted Hilarian as he helped his mate deposit the box on the large table that had been prepared for it by the fire. “Your brother Ron could not meet us at the tower because he vas in the ‘ospital ving, but his friend Harry vas there vith the fellow.”

“How did he behave on the flight home?” Charlie asked, interestedly surveying the box which looked quite the worse for wear, with several tiny holes on the top, a large tear on one side, and tendrils of smoke curling up from beneath the lid.

“He is a feisty one,” Horia, Hilarian’s companion replied, as he helped Charlie and Valerian to disassemble the box, and free the baby inside. “They said his name vas Norbert – it is a very odd name to giff to a dragon, I think.”

The men watched warily and quietly as the last flap fell off with a thunk, to reveal a small, scaly, slightly crumpled brown and black form. Beady black eyes looked around curiously. Charlie jumped back as a tiny spurt of fire shot out of the baby dragon’s nostrils. Bits of fluff and cotton, which were obviously the remains of a teddy bear rolled off his back and fell in a heap around his wings.

“He’s a bit vicious, isn’t he?” piped up a new voice, and the fourth occupant of the room, who had been watching the proceedings from afar, stepped forward to look at Norbert. “I didn’t think such a tiny fellow could demolish a stuffed toy so quickly.”

“Careful,” cautioned Charlie, as the aforementioned occupant, his new assistant – a pimply, shock-headed youth of eighteen, nicknamed “Junior” for no apparent reason – held out a small bowl of brandy and chicken blood to the tiny dragon.

Norbert sniffed it suspiciously for a moment, and then began to lap up the concoction thirstily, wriggling his wings with enthusiasm.

“It’s a girl!” Junior said suddenly. He was watching the dragon closely.

“What?”

“Norbert isn’t a boy, she’s a female.” Charlie stared, following Junior’s pointing finger. Sure enough, as the dragon moved, a tiny teat came into view on her underbelly. Charlie groaned.

“Brilliant now. He turns out to be a She. Hagrid should have checked properly before he sent her on here,” Charlie grumbled. “We’ll have to change her name, too. But she only answers to Norbert now, what are we supposed to do?”

“Ve can call her Norberta,” Horia supplied. “It is close enough to Norbert, and she vould not notice the difference.”

“Yeah! That’s right – Norberta Norbertson!” Junior exclaimed, beaming. He then warily held out his hand to her. The newly christened dragon raised her head and snuffled into Junior’s palm. She obviously approved of her new name.

Charlie snorted.


	8. The Homecoming - Sirius

It feels soft, silky; weightless, almost. The sounds on the other side of the veil are distant and vague. He worries for a moment when he can’t hear Harry’s voice, or Remus’ any longer, but then, he realises.

_He’s dead._

Odd, that. Being killed by drapery wasn’t on his top ten list of Ways To Kick The Bucket.

He whips his head around at the sound of footsteps echoing hollowly just outside this - what is this - room? hall? - and almost topples back through the veil when he sees the entrant.

"You!"

"Hello, Sirius," Regulus says.

Jaw slack, thoroughly bamboozled, he can only stare at his younger brother. Regulus seems to find this amusing, and raises an eye brow in that maddening way he has, the prat.

"But…but I thought you were a Death Eater…"

“Were being the main point here. I switched sides and even nicked one of the Dark Lord’s horcruxes - oh I forgot, you don’t know about them - nevermind, well, anyway, here I am. Come on, now, they’re waiting to see you.”

”Who’s waiting to see me?”

"You’ll find out soon enough," Regulus says, and takes hold of his brother’s arm, and tugs him out of the room, through a set of French windows - when did those appear? - and into a large, sunny garden.

There’s a large chestnut tree near a stream and it even has a hammock slung low, just like the one in Potter Manor, and there are two figures walking towards him. He’s able to make out fiery red hair as they come nearer-

And a messy-haired, hazel-eyed, bespectacled boy flings himself onto him, and hugs him tight.

Warmth pools in his belly as he looks at Lily, beaming radiantly, Reg, his baby brother, also grinning, and James, who still has him by the arms-

"Welcome home, Padfoot," James says simply.


	9. Moonset - The Marauders

Tangled, in the dusty drapes, lithe limbs all akimbo,  
Pockmarked, freckled, scarred, scraped and bruised,  
Sweat pooled in collar-hollows, dripping in rivulets,  
Brows, pale, fever-moist, lips parched, hot, dry breath,  
Hair scattered; black and brown, damp, dank and lank,  
Four forms, unformed, gawky, gangly, unfinished,  
Sinew, flesh on bone, twitches, turns, murmurs -  
An exercise in haphazard grace,  
In oblivion.

Beyond the ballast, the pale moon fades,  
The darkest night does turn to grey,  
The bleak fresh morn; the light, a heralder,  
A stirring of the quiescent dreams,  
Mumbles, murmurs, wriggles and writhes,  
The dawn of conscious, eyes; brown, blue, grey,  
Boy-limbs, unfurled; as though a bud from slumber,  
Unforeseen elegance, unheralded delicacy,  
The marionette of a master puppeteer.

Three forms awaken; softly stir, the last lies nestled, unaware,  
Honey-brown tendrils, play-sped heart, dew-kissed brows,  
Sleep-heavy limbs, flushed red; a rose-bed of scars, knitting grazes,  
Dry, howl-weary lips, soft moans, a twitch of tenuous fingertips,  
Sleepy mumbles, a slow-growing ache,  
Conscious hovers on the edge; at last he awakens,  
Four forms now, youth-bright gazes, clumsy, boyish hands,  
A reassurance, a promise; slow, glowing warmth,  
A moment, at dawn,  
At Moonset.


	10. Interrupted - Lily/James

The old cottage in ruins lies,

Roof rent in half, walls blown apart,

Cracks snaking thither, ribbon-like,

And plaster-white, crumbling into infinity.

 

Scorch marks impressed on the pristine floor,

Marks of a battle, well-fought, but lost,

In this fight, there is no gain,

This destroyed home, a prison-house of pain.

 

In the hall, at the foot of the stairs he lies,

Face serene and calm, carved of marble pale,

A noble warrior, defender, brave beyond this mortal age,

No more a boy, but a conqueror of death’s dread veil.

 

And upstairs, at the foot of the cradle she rests,

A halo of red, fitting crown for a spirited queen,

Green eyes, still filled of wonder, of love,

Ode to a mother’s sacrificial rites.

 

Dusk is falling, but time stands still,

For one eternity, the world has ceased to spin,

No breath is drawn, no soft sigh lingers,

The frail thread of life snaps and disappears.

 

Outside the walls, time is still fleet,

People are rejoicing in the street,

None see the pall cast down its sheet,

And cover this home from head to feet.

 

Life, half-done, has left its mark,

Pies in the oven, in the kettle some tea,

A lamp in the nursery still dispels the dark,

Shining on drawings of hill, valley and sea.

 

The shutters are drawn, tis doom that prevails,

While from his cradle, the baby wails.


	11. Felicity - James/Lily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was not the terrifying fall from grace, painful and abrupt, that you expected.

You thought there was no higher felicity than the firm grip of the wood beneath your hands, the summer breezes whipping through your hair, and the ever-present thrill that tickles your spine and your fingertips with the anticipation of the Quaffle coming your way. No, indeed there was nothing equal to the roar of the crowd, miniscule ants below you, as you manoeuvred your way past the beaters, bypassed the keeper, and made yet another successful goal.

But suddenly, you discovered how wrong you were.

It was not the terrifying fall from grace, painful and abrupt, that you expected.

Instead, it was a slow-burning feeling of warmth, a delicious tickle that blossomed in your heart and crept outward, lapping at your mind and soul all the while. It was the start of something beautiful, though you did not know this then. The red hair, dancing in the wind as though they were flames aspiring to reach the chimney top; that smile, straight from her soul that spoke so intimately to your own, the eyes, breathtaking in their frankness and joy.

This, then was real felicity. This was heaven.


	12. Immortality - Teddy Lupin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is something irresistible in the sound of this silence.

There is something irresistible in the sound of this silence.

Teddy breathes it in like a drug; feels its heady intoxication permeate his pores and run, ticklish and lightning-fleet, across the sinuous nerves entwined around his heart. Teddy drinks it in like a nectar; and savours each drop as it bathes the hungry crevices of his soul.

But it is not silence at all.

There is a state that falls between words and silence, a state of being unutterable, indefinable, intangible in its physicality, for it bears no mortal form and exists only in the spirit. It lies, dormant but-ever present in every archway and buttress of this old house, in every bower and in the dancing streams around these woods, in every wind that blows over this land. It lies in his very veins, in the pools and hollows of his stomach, the cavities of his heart.

It lies dormant, but ready, ever alert for his call, and comes whenever he should have need. This spirit-essence of his father, all things loving, and kindly and fair and just, beautiful and fragile; and terrible in its strength. Ribbons of the heart-soul of his mother, all things bright and sparkling and alive and vibrant, courage and nobility above the human plight; an eternal, enduring grace.

It is life.

Life surrounds him, marks him, completes him, vibrates in every atom of his body, fills and fulfils the chambers of his soul, stitches him together.

Father and Mother, they stand beside him, invisible, ethereal shadows, they dwell inside him, an infinite bubbling font.

And thus is he made immortal, three parts life, and three parts soul.


	13. Into The Fire - James/Lily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James' address to Lily.

From fire to fire, my fighter-lass,

Let flames of auburn and emerald burn

Behind your eyes, at the ends of your smile,

And dance, merrily on your fingertips.

Lock out this harsh, unyielding world,

And stir up the embers of courage,

Take up your shield, my warrior-sweet,

And thrust your sword into the fire.


	14. Dragons - James Potter

Charlus Potter found he couldn't move his legs. He looked down to find two thin arms wrapped around his thighs, and chubby cheeks hidden in the velvet folds of his robes. With a heavy sigh he bent down, and began to disentangle the small hands from the iron grip they had formed upon the cloth. "Jamie," he said softly, "Daddy has to go to work now."

"Don't want you to go." A voice emerged from the depths of his left pocket.

"I have to go, darling. I would take you with me if I could, but then who's going to stay here and look after Mummy?"

One hazel eye peeped out. And then blinked. "You want me to stay here so I can look after Mummy?"

"Of course," Charlus assured his son. "Otherwise, who's going to save her from the big bad dragons that come galumphing along the corridors and sneak into the kitchen by the light of the moon - er beg pardon, the sun - and steal biscuits from right under her nose, eh?"

There was a giggle, and this time Charlus was rewarded by the sight of a messy head finally emerging from his robes. "But...but I heard Mummy say she was _perfeckly capabill_ of lookin' after herself yesterday," James said, frowning.

Charlus sighed. It had been too much to expect such a child as James to take his words at face value. "Your Mummy can protect herself from lots of things," he said, "but for those tiresome dragons, she needs _you._ "

James nodded solemnly. "Okay, I'll stay here if you really want," he said, and turned those clear eyes on Charlus. "But what about you, Daddy? Who's going to look after you?"

Charlus cleared his throat hastily, trying to dislodge the lump that he suddenly felt there. It would not budge, so he spoke around it: "I can look after myself, Jamie. I'm not afraid of dragons. There are people - other people, who need my help more."

"Are dragons after them, too?"

"Not dragons but people...wicked people are after them."

"Why?" The small eyes shone with frank curiosity.

"Well, Jamie, there are some wizards who have Muggle parents, and these wicked people don't like it. They think magic shouldn't be used by people who have Muggles in their families."

"That's silly," James decided, after a moment's intense introspection. "They must be scared of Muggles then, an' that's stupid, because there's nothing to be scared about!"

Charlus chuckled. "I think you may have a very good point there, Jamie."

"One day I'll come with you and help to protect them too," James announced.

Charlus reached out and ran a slim-fingered hand over the wild black locks on his son's head. "I would be honoured," he said softly.


	15. Torn - James/Lily

It is the fifth time this month, and Lily decides that this is enough.

Autumn never sits well with her. It collects in the hollows of her stomach and throat and fills them with dust and decay. It is stifling, and every breath is an age of agony.

James does not do well in autumn either. He is eighteen years old and rotting from the inside out.

Lily wonders when it started. When childish arrogance and schoolboy bullying descended into cruelty. And such a one that adds disgust to decay, for he indulges in such refined forms of cruelty, wrought with skill and care. Bile surges up her throat when she considers him.

He comes to her this evening, hands red with the blood of humans, and soul a deeper crimson still. She knows her own is an echo of his.

She tells him that she is leaving.

There is the merest flicker of regret, a shadow of hurt across his face. A stoical shrug is all that follows; they both know they are too far gone for the saving.

Broken people.

Goodbye, she says.

Goodbye, he says.

Lily turns and leaves and wishes that the autumn would suffocate her.


	16. The Kneazle Question - James/Lily

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, I know it's been an overload of Jily recently, but these are all fics written for a competition over on ffnet, where my pairing of choice is Jily.

A soft mewling emanated from Lily's breast.

James blinked. "What" - he began, but was interrupted by Lily, who threw open her cloak - rather grandiosely - and proudly displayed three tiny, ginger Kneazles cuddled against her bosom.

"Aren't they just perfect?" Lily beamed, and thrust one of them into James' arms.

James blinked again. Perfect wasn't his word of choice. The kittens were wet, bedraggled and looked distinctly grumpy. "Hmm," he murmured noncommittally.

"Won't it be fun to keep them, James?" Lily asked. "Here, baby, come to Mummy." She reached out and took the kitten back. He immediately nestled against her shoulder.

James frowned. "Are you sure you want to keep them, Lily? They're quite boisterous, you know, and on top of you being pregnant and all..." He himself wasn't overfond of the feline persuasion, and Merlin only knew what Padfoot or Moony would say when they found out he'd been enlisted as Daddy to cats, and Wormtail wouldn't even sight the place...

One kitten reached out a paw and batted James playfully on the arm. Lily smiled. "Oh see - they already love you!" She smiled up at James, but upon seeing his unconvinced expression, her smile dropped.

She nodded out towards the window, where a violent flurry of snow was hitting the window panes, letting splatters of water trickle down the glass. "It's freezing outside," she said quietly. "I found them in a box under a hedge. The mother was already dead, and the poor things were half-frozen. We have a comfortable and warm home, why cannot we share it with them?"

She turned big, doe eyes on him, and James sighed. He'd never been able to refuse her anything. "All right," he agreed, and kissed her lightly. "But _you're_ cleaning out the litter boxes."


	17. Air - Dudley Dursley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Christmas Character Challenge by The Kawaii Neko  
> 1 – Ham – write about Dudley Dursley

This world is unmistakeable. Dudley doesn’t think he overlooked it by accident – oh no – he was quite wilfully blind to it. But now when he opens his eyes and really _looks_ , the magical world and all it holds imprints itself on his mind like a brand on his skin: hard, hot, and brightly burning. He isn’t very smart or observant – not at thirteen, when he hid his inadequacies with insults and violence, and not now at thirty-eight, when he’s given up hiding them all together. But now he’s training himself to read and recognise the small signs of magic in the normal – _Muggle_ – world around him, painstakingly piecing together a confusing but enthralling image of magical Britain.

The colours here are always brighter; the reds are redder, the greens deeper, richer, the chromes and cobalts vivid and sparkling. The smells are stronger, lingering longer, always blended with undertones of rare herbs and spices. But the sounds are muted, strange mutterings and incantations warped from being hidden behind _Statutes_ and _Protection Acts_ and other unfamiliar words he discovered in a large, brittle leather-bound book Harry had once sent him for Christmas.

But it’s really the _air_ that makes the difference.

 

*******

 

There is an air around Harry. He couldn’t pinpoint when he’d first realised it – it was just something that was _there_ , plain as the nose on your face or the sellotape on Harry’s glasses. It was a marvellous, fascinating sort of thing, which reminded Dudley of things red and gold with a prominent undercurrent of, strangely enough, lilies and mince pies. It grew stronger and stronger, and sometimes expanded into an invisible pulsating cloud when Harry shattered or levitated things by accident, or turned his teacher’s hair blue. Dudley liked it and wanted it, and stretched out his arm to ask Harry if he could have some of it too, but Mum shrieked and came running, and slapped Harry’s hand away.

“Unnatural,” Mum said in a hushed voice.

“Idiot, stupid boy,” Dad growled, and threw Harry into his cupboard.

But Harry’s air couldn’t be controlled – much like his hair, in fact – and that frightened Dudley. He tried to generate an air of his own, one that he could use and discipline, but as much as he tried, he simply could not. And that angered him.

The boa constrictor at the zoo had an air too. When Harry spoke to it and vanished the glass, he watched it slithering away – to Brazil, Harry mentioned in a letter to him many years later – and then screamed for Mum, heart pounding at the undercurrent of menace that oozed from the snake’s scales as they whipped by his legs.

“It was different,” he tried to explain. “When it talked to Harry, it was nice – friendly. When it went past me, it – its _air_ changed” –

But his parents looked at him fearfully; Mum’s pale irises blown wide, veins turning Dad’s flesh a mottled purple, and Dudley stopped short, clamping down on the fountain of words still inside him, and resolved never to speak of the air again.

 

*******

 

He learned that the _air_ is actually called _magic_ when the giant burst through the door to their cottage in the middle of the storm.

Rubeus Hagrid was a swirling mass of love, anger, guilt, shame, pride and joy, underpinned with a vivid streak of mouldy biscuits and something suspiciously like singed eggs.

Then Dudley tried, for one last time, to create the air, staring so hard at the couch with his fingers raised until his eyes watered with effort and he was sure – so sure – that the couch _almost_ moved. Ten – twenty seconds – nothing happened, and Dudley went back to concentrating his energies on punching opponents in the boxing ring.

 

*******

 

Harry’s air changed every time he came back from That Place.

The red and gold remained constant, like foundations beneath skyscrapers, but the mince pies vanished, replaced in turns by strange herbs, leather, wood and straw, fruit trifle, owl droppings, wet dog, and in later years, a faint flowery scent that Dudley found both attractive and embarrassing.

The scent of lilies grew stronger with the years.

Harry added an unusual element to his composition, which Dudley understood. Harry had it in thin gangling limbs, scruffy hair, ill-fitting glasses and abrupt pauses in speech. Dudley had it in layers of flesh that he could not shed, a confused lumbering step, and the halting speech that came with the constant filtering of his thoughts. Mentally, he termed it _the awkward_.

He wilfully ignored the air as much as he could, confining thought and action to concrete, sensory details, carefully drawing down blinds over all that he could not dissemble or fathom out. The doors of That World, the musings of Their Kind were hidden to him. But magic would not stop dogging him, hitting him with a punch that summer in the tunnel. Then, he knew what dark magic was. The sheer all-encompassing despair, that elephantine crushing on his chest – _Dismembers_ , Dad called them – desperately reaching out, trying to find Harry at his side, eyes fruitlessly probing the thick dark mist. And then the horror, the slow-dawning realisation that strong dark magic could not be forever stalled, even by the sharp, burning thing that had been Harry’s magic that year.

Subtle power is the next variation he came across. Dumbledore is all of this, everything ancient and wise and somehow _dangerous_ despite the twinkles and the bright robes and the lingering smell of sherbet lemon.

Pure magical might filled the spaces of this normal house. He knew nothing about the mechanics of that world, but he could guess that its residue would remain, long after the building itself was empty.

“I don’t think you’re a waste of space,” he said to Harry, and hoped that it conveyed all he meant.

 

*******

Hestia takes him on tours of magical places.

She started with magical objects first – tuning into secret stations on the rusty old wireless, bending her ear close to the tinny speakers, brows furrowed in concentration. Mum turned white, pursed her lips and withdrew to the bedroom. Dad, flesh flushed a dull purple but unable to forgo the protection they offered, retired too, grumbling all the while. But Dudley was drawn in, closer and closer, eyes fixed on the way Hestia’s wand would tap into the dents and bumps on the radio, the way the air thickened and shifted whenever sparks of magic flew out.

He began to read the unique lulls and cadences of each voice on the program, and felt a stabbing pain in his gut when he learned that Rapier and Romulus were dead.

The magical world has ruins. Buildings and towns in various states of decay, scattered across urban and rural landscapes still smoking and simmering with the aftermath of battles decades past. He learns to read the differences in levels of magic – the suffocating weight of concentrated dark magic, the shrill sharp burning of curses cast in anger, the airy weightlessness, the soft-burgeoning warmth of what Hestia describes as _deep magic_ – felt, but unseen.

Hestia dropped down on her haunches beside Dudley, watching him poke holes in the scorched earth with his fingers, feeling burning grains of sand running between his fingers. “Can’t we go to Hogwarts?” He asked. “Or Hogsmeade?”

She shook her head regretfully. “I just might be able to sneak you into Hogsmeade, but Hogwarts is absolutely closed to Muggles.”

Dudley pointed at the dead mansion in front of him. “But these are open…”

Hestia shrugged. “Old ruins, with just the last vestiges of magic remaining. The Statute doesn’t bother to protect them because most Muggles don’t care about these old things anyway. They’ll just see an old decayed building – feel or see nothing beyond that.”

He grit his teeth and vowed to find at least one other person – Muggle – with _imagination_.

 

*******

 

When his daughter was born, she exuded magic from every pore. His wife, who has enough imagination – or perception – to defeat a house of a thousand Dursleys, bent over the tiny wriggling form, eyes alight with pleasure. “Oh this is wonderful,” she breathed, “she’s all magic!”

It is an apt description. The baby grows from toddlerhood to adolescence, and her air grows with her – warm and light, blue and gold and bubbling. He takes her round as much as he can, all cities and towns and out-of-the-way villages, picking up on all the tiny hints of magic tucked away in the teeming, tumultuous Muggle world. Hestia joins them often, pointing out bricks in walls, redder than the rest, shabby inns and pubs tucked away between glittering Muggle department stores, oddly shaped phone boxes that are portals to that other world, the odd witch or wizard, still conspicuous in bright emerald robes or strange hats. Dudley looks closely at the all, committing each one to memory.

Harry begins to send him things. He starts with Christmas cards, covered in his untidy scrawl, later in neater handwriting, and then with the addition of names: Ginny, James, Albus, Lily. They still smell of flowers and wet dog. The presents follow; leather-bound books with dusty pages and the brittle scent of long-ago libraries, brightly packaged sweets and once, a homemade jumper. Dudley watches his wife read them to his daughter, the unfamiliar words dropping carefully from her lips, conjuring up images of castles and broomstick-games and simmering cauldrons.

With memories of pig’s tails and overlong tongues, he still does not dare touch the sweets.

 

*******

 

The train is only a blot in the distance when he finally stops waving and turns his head away. Even now, if he closes his eyes, he can see his daughter’s face in the first compartment, brown eyes bright with excitement. She’s much smarter than he is, he’s certain she’ll do well.

Platform nine and three quarters has the thickest concentration of magic he’s ever seen. He fights his way through a tangle of robes and wands, wife at his side, looking curiously at a collection of magical knick-knacks in one of the shop windows.

He looks up to find Harry standing a few feet in front of him.

“Hallo,” Dudley says.

Harry’s air has changed again – deeper, richer, sadder, somehow. But streamlined and powerful, the lilies stronger than they had ever been before. The faint flowery scent comes again; he looks to the left and sees Harry’s wife standing there.

Harry’s shirt is crooked, his glasses smeared and scratched around the rims. “Er” – says Harry, after a short pause, “Hallo.” His eyes crinkle up, and his hand automatically jumps to the untidy spikes at the back of his head, and Dudley smiles in spite of himself. Some things never change.


	18. Pre-Proposal - Rubeus Hagrid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Christmas Character Challenge by The Kawaii Neko  
> 2 – Tree – Write about Rubeus Hagrid

Neville ducked his head, red with embarrassment, struggling against a shy smile.

Hagrid waited a moment, but no further explanation was forthcoming, so he opened the door of his hut wider and beamed at Neville. “Neville! Fancy a cuppa?”

“All right then,” Neville murmured, and followed Hagrid over the threshold. Hagrid could hear scraping rustling sounds, followed by a regular slurping as Neville settled into one of the armchairs and submitted to Fang’s enthusiastic greeting. Hagrid poured out two large mugs of tea – making sure that it really was tea, and not just boiling water, as he was sometimes wont do to – and put it in front of Neville, along with a plate of warm rock cakes.

Neville’s brow fell into little wrinkles as he surveyed the plate, face reddening slightly. Perhaps the lad was overheated. “What’s th’ matter?” Hagrid asked, concerned. “Are ye overheatin’? I can turn down the fire” – He reached for the pink umbrella by the fireplace, but stopped when Neville stretched out his arm.

“It – it’s fine.” Neville’s voice trembled slightly, the syllables trailing off in a squeak towards the end, and Hagrid felt his concern increase. He hadn’t hear that particular strain on Neville’s voice since third year, when the story of Snape and Neville’s grandmother’s clothes had made the rounds. “Whatever it is, Neville, yeh can tell me, yeh know. I’m here, anytime” –

“It’s Hannah,” Neville blurted out, “I want to ask her to marry me.”

Hagrid felt his face splitting into a humungous grin. He could well imagine anybody having flutterbies in their undershorts when thinking on such a task – especially someone like Neville, who was quite genuine and serious about the endeavour. Why, Hagrid himself had been completely tongue-tied when he’d tried to pop the question to Olympe… taken a few tries, it had, but in the end… Hagrid let his thoughts trail off, wiped his face of his silly grin, hitched on a more appropriate congratulatory expression, and turned back to Neville.

The plate of rock cakes was completely empty. Wonderful appetites, these youngsters had. Hagrid grinned, and Neville smiled back, still slightly green in the face.

“Yeh’ll be fine,” Hagrid said roughly. “Yeh a good man, she’ll not say no.”

“What – what if she gets better offers?” Neville asked anxiously. “I’m not the best catch, surely there’ll be more eligible men…”

Hagrid shook his head. “Yeh a true Gryffindor, Neville. One o’ the bravest men I know. Pulled out the sword of Gryffindor outta’ the Sortin’ Hat, didn’t yeh? That’s good proof, right there.”

“But Hannah’s a Puff” –

“An’ they’re the best at seein’ and appreciatin’ people just as they are. Don’ go beating roun’ the stable door” –

“The bush,” Neville interrupted, “beating around the bush” –

“That’s what I said,” Hagrid waved a hand dismissively, “yeh’ve got all your birds in one bush, don’t go closing the stable door till the horse is inside. Leastways, leave out anything that isn’t important first time around. Main thing is to ask her right out.”

Neville nodded, eyes intense. “I intend to.” He took a deep breath, then wiped his hands against his black professor’s robes, unmindful of the muddy streaks that ran across the rough woollen cloth. “Tonight,” he said firmly. “I’d meant to ask her tomorrow, but I’d rather do it tonight.”

“Soon as possible is better,” Hagrid agreed. “Yeh haven’t got nothin’ to worry about. Why, I remember when yeh were a tiny little thing just this high, an’ the Sortin’ Hat slipped right over yeh whole face – and now yeh the best Herbology teacher Hogwarts has seen this side o’ a thousand years.”

Neville went crimson and hid his mumbles in his teacup.

“That’s right,” Hagrid nodded, “Pomona’s right happy with yeh progress, an’ all the kids love yeh.” And it wasn’t just Neville who’d become stronger. There was Harry, and Ron – even now, the memory of him attacking Malfoy with the slug-eating charm brought a tear to Hagrid’s eye, and little Ginny, so full of fire, and Luna, who’d grown up into a wonderful young woman. At one point, he’d thought that Neville and Luna… but this way was better, he had to admit…

“Yeh friends, then? They’ll be comin’ to the weddin’ then?”

“I – I haven’t thought so far… but yes, yes, I suppose they will. Harry and Ron are here, at any rate, and Luna’ll be down in a month or so.”

“Expedition goin’ well, then?” Hagrid replenished the rock cake plate, and settled down in his own armchair, sticking out a boot and scratching Fang’s belly.

“She wrote last week,” Neville said, breathing in the minty scent of the herb tea. “She’s got great news – found the Crumple-Horned Snorkack! Sent us photographs, too. Hermione was fair foaming at the mouth…”

Neville laughed, face and voice alive with happiness, and Hagrid sat back, and smiled as the warmth of the evening enveloped him.


	19. Process - Luna/Ron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Christmas Character Challenge by The Kawaii Neko  
> 3 – Fairy Lights – write about Luna Lovegood  
> And the Pairing Scenario Challenge by obscurialdefenseclub – week 1: School, Hogwarts Ron/Luna

She reads the scorn in his blue eyes when she peers over the Quibbler. She follows his gaze, flickering over the psychedelic spectacles, down to the newspaper, then still further to her necklace. His lips curl up, an ungraceful arc of too-red skin and darkening hair, exposing teeth at the corners.

She knows what he sees: Butterbeer corks. He does not know what she sees: Wrackspurts landing on his nose.

The bossy girl says something insulting. There are Wrackspurts buzzing around her head. She cannot help snapping back, voice sharpening, and sees the respect rise like floodwater in his eyes.

 

*******

 

He is rude and blunt, all knobby knees and blunderbuss and splutters and terrible red hair and bad manners, but she has seen enough sharp, biting malice and sheer underhandedness and simple, plain cruelty to be fazed by this. The lack of a veneer is refreshing – there are no filters, he simply says what he thinks.

Despite his often irritating habits, she treasures the gift of his honesty. In that way, he and his sister are much alike. Their kindness is not the gentle sugary syrup of convention, but fiery, burning brilliantly.

Hogwarts could do with more of their ilk.

 

*******

 

She wakes three days after the fight at the Ministry. For a month afterwards, she feels like half a person, early memories mangled so badly she cannot even recall her mother’s face in her dreams. She answers questions about her health with automatic smiles and meaningless pleasantries, but he never asks her anything.

He simply sits, first by her bedside in the Hospital Wing, and later by the fire next to her at the Ravenclaw table.

They play chess. He wins, and tells her she shouldn’t let the Wrackspurts get to her, and it does not sound like an insult.

 

*******

 

“Nice commentary.”

He stands in the courtyard, collar turned up against the rain, resplendent in knobbly maroon jumper.

She shakes her head. “You’re the only one who liked it.”

He shrugs, then smiles. “Can’t disagree with your opinions on Loser’s Lurgy.”

She frowns in spite of herself, distant words echoing in her mind. “You’re much nicer to me now than you were. Harry said you’d told him that I’d grown on you. Is that why?”

The tips of his ears turn red, but he meets her eyes steadily. “I’m the same as I ever was. Maybe _I’ve_ grown on _you_.”

 

 

*******

“Congratulations.”

She stares lovingly down at the box that contains the Kerfuffling Hunklewort. “You didn’t think it existed really, did you?”

“I’ve learned better than to doubt anything you say.” His smile is as awkward as ever, but his eyes have changed – their blue sparks with something stronger than she has ever seen. “I’m sure it’ll have a good home with Hagrid.” He holds her gaze for just a second, then something flickers deep inside, and his ears turn a familiar red. “Shall I – er – come down with you to his hut?”

“Yes,” she says, and reaches for his hand.


	20. The Lines Are Drawn – Narcissa Malfoy / Benjy Fenwick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For The Christmas Character Challenge by The Kawaii Neko:  
> 4 – Frost – write about Narcissa Malfoy

The brand still burns her skin, itching red and angry where the wand pressed against the fragile flesh and tore through blood and sinew. She did not cry then, and she will not cry now. Again and again she pushes back the tears that threaten to break through the dam of her defences.

She tugs down the sleeves of her robes, lowers her head, and goes to class.

It is not enough.

Around every corner she can see his eyes, iron grey and heavy with grief. He knows what she did, for she is an open book to him, every thought, every feeling laid out like a sonnet to be read and analysed. All the deep things of her, even those that are hidden to her, are plain as day to him.

Strange, that a Muggleborn should have such skill, should find so easily the key to her heart.

_“Narcissa!”_

She is weak, and cannot resist the urgent whisper. With a quick look around to make certain that neither Lucius nor Regulus are in sight, she vanishes behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy.

Benjy Fenwick stares, first at her wrists, then at her face. She tugs again, and the damp material slides past the tattoo, but she can do nothing to arrest the movement of Benjy’s dark eyes, lingering on the hollows in her cheeks, or the pallor beneath her eyes.

“You did it, then,” he says, and his voice is rough around the edges. “I wouldn’t have thought…” he trails off, staring at a spot beyond her. “But then again… maybe I _did_ think.” He meets her eyes then, something dark and hot curling like smoke in them. “We were always hiding, weren’t we, Narcissa? Always creeping around, hiding behind statues and greenhouse – and you – you – hiding behind your sisters, your parents – good Godric, you really don’t believe in this Pureblood nonsense, do you?”

But maybe she did, a long time ago.

“I’m just trying to protect my family,” she tells him, and wills her voice to stop shaking. “He is strong, Benjy, far, far stronger than you can ever imagine. And – he’s terrible. Crossing him means death. I had to join – I had no choice” –  

“So it’s a game, now? Align yourself with the strongest, eh? And you’re wrong – he _won’t_ win. And _he’_ s wrong – and you know that. He isn’t out for justice, or the Wizarding world, or protecting the magical population – or whatever utter _lies_ he’s fed you with. Simply put, he’s a megalomaniac. And your lot are just egging him on.” And then the fire starts up in his eyes again, and when he turns his head, she can see the blood rise to his face, the angles of his cheekbones still dark in the shadow of the statue. “Well, you can do what you like – you always did what you wanted, and I couldn’t stop you. But me, _I’m_ on the right side. I’m going to stand and fight. Simple as that.”

And that was Benjy all over. Perhaps life was really that simple for him – a hundred times had Narcissa both blessed and cursed that peculiar bull-headed Gryffindor tendency. But as much as he said that she could not understand, there were things that he could not understand either.

Life would always be complicated for her.

“This is the end,” he says, and her heart stutters, catching painfully in her chest. “We can’t carry on – not together, anyway. The lines are drawn, now.” His voice is thick. His chest heaves against her, muscles straining in his shoulders and neck. For one, two, three seconds he stills, head bowed over hers, then stumbles out of the alcove and walks away.

 

*******

 

She carries on.  

An ability that is peculiarly hers, to ignore, to rationalise, and to compartmentalise. And always, she knows what she is doing. Lucius is none the wiser – he cannot know, for her secrets are locked in the minds of two people only – but his eyes are on her, constantly, consistently, waiting, watching.

There are other eyes on her too. Not often, but always unexpected; a flash of grey across a classroom, in the dining hall or on the Quidditch pitch. She carries the tsunamis of those memories always with her, never outwardly, but bubbling just inside.

Lucius leaves Hogwarts. Then she leaves Hogwarts, and they marry. She watches, as though in a dream, the minister’s wand circling their joined hands, the golden threads emerging, weaving, cocooning her, imprisoning her in a gilded web she cannot escape.

The Dark Lord’s eyes are dark in his pale face, and each time he turns, they flash red and murderous. There are countless meetings, at Grimmauld Place, in their own large mansion that she tries to call home as best she can, and goes on missions in mouldy dark alleyways and in the forgotten corners of the magical world. All the while, she hugs her black hood and cloak about her like a second skin, and sets her features into a mask like the White witch, captured in an eternal frost.

Two years – two years of tears and spells and charms, gasping and shuddering in tangles of silken sheets, and she still cannot have a baby. Lucius’ contempt stares at her across the room, white and blue and icy. Her fingers twitch, feeling along the shape angles of her belly, and she wonders what would change if she had chosen differently all those years ago.

By the thirteenth mission, she knows the routine, slips her mask into place, and follows Lucius and Amycus along the foul winding lane. Behind her, she can hear Regulus’ breath hitching, his boots stumbling against hers.

And then they round the corner, directly beneath the streetlamps, and there, at last, they have the Order pinned down –

Three faces, white, wreathing bodies, blood and sweat, and the stench of fear –

Lucius twirls his wand, and Marlene McKinnon crumples.

Amycus slashes his own, and Caradoc Dearborn vanishes.

_One left. One left._

She raises her wand, hand steady against her heartbeat, and then the figure moans, cloak slipping off.

She freezes.

Iron grey eyes, heavy and dull with despair, but still smoky with anger –

_The lines are drawn now_ –

Behind her, Regulus’ warm breath stops, starts again, turning to ice and horror.

And then she watches, as though turned to stone, as Amycus huffs with impatience, draws his own wand, and blasts Benjy Fenwick into a thousand pieces.


	21. Last Goodbye – The Black Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Christmas Character Challenge by The Kawaii Neko  
> 4 – Family – write about any family, together

Sirius’ eyes reflect the firelight; dark and hard as a sword newly sheathed in goblin-wrought silver. Something stirs in their iron-grey depths, hotter than anger, older than age itself. “I have to, Regulus,” he says, tones burred with despair, “you see that, don’t you?”

Something stirs in Regulus too, deep in the heart of his guts, a knife, twisting slowly. “I don’t see,” he answers, trying to still the shake in his voice. “I don’t see at all. How could you leave us? We’re your family” –

_“Family!”_

Regulus winces at Sirius’ shout, sharper than a poker in a fire. Sirius lifts a hand to his temple, dabs at the blood streaking his skin and hair and moves his fingers, fine and stiff as marble, over the livid purple bruises forming beneath his eyes. “Father and Mother – and you, yes, you, Regulus – you saw what Bellatrix did to me, and you did nothing to stop her. She cursed me, brother, and you stood by and watched.”

Regulus’ head jerks up at his brother’s tone, fraught with guilt and grief as it is. He cannot help himself; their eyes meet, his own light grey probing the darker, wishing, and willing, to join the other in its anguish.

“I couldn’t stop her,” he says, and hopes with all his might that his brother would believe this truth. “She’s stronger than I am, Sirius – she’d… she’d have killed me.”

“No.” Warmth colours Sirius’ tones. “She needs you alive and well, to join her in service to her _Lord._ You’re a skilled wizard – you have a wand – it is past time that you learnt to use it.”

“I – I couldn’t – Mother – Father” – Regulus casts a glance to their left, where Father and Mother stand in the shadows. Grey in the shade of the great tapestry, and still as statues. Strange, to see Mother so unmoved, her vitality bound like a prisoner with irons.

But Father moves forward, away from the shadows, into the light opposite Sirius, frosty stare boring into his older son.

“You are of age, now, Sirius, and we cannot stop you if you wish to leave. Joining forces with the Dark Lord is your duty to your family, and is in your best interest” –

_“Never” –_

“Very well,” Father continued, and the coldness in his voice makes Regulus shiver, “then you leave with nothing. Your inheritance will be revoked, and you shall have no further contact with your mother and myself. Your brother… he may do as he wishes, with regards to you.”

Sirius turns, levitates his suitcase with his wand. “So be it.” He looks up at the carved ceiling, eyes sliding gently down the stone walls, and then darting, quicker than lighting, to Regulus, holding his gaze and locking it with his own, “I somehow doubt that I’ll ever regret leaving. Except… you, Regulus – you could have made something of yourself. I shall be sorry to miss you growing up.”

“Stay and find out,” Regulus suggests.

“No.”

_“Please.”_

“I can’t, Reggie.”

“I – I thought you loved me,” Regulus says quietly. He moves closer; his breath ghosts down Sirius’ neck, and he sees the goose bumps rise. His body stiffens as Regulus moves into the curve beneath his arm. Regulus fits perfectly there, it is a safe haven made for him.

“I did – I do. But I have to leave. Please don’t force me, Regulus.”

Regulus leans against the firm chest, counting every heaving breath. A hand ghosts over his hair, then falls away. “No,” says Sirius firmly, and turns back to his suitcase.

“You don’t love me” – begins Regulus, and reaches out an arm, again. It is a mistake. His fingers have barely touched the gashes on Sirius cheek, when he is thrust aside abruptly.

The push has greater force than his slender form can bear. He goes flying across the room, and slams into the fender of the fireplace. Something damp trickles down his temple, and white spots flicker on the peripheries of his vision.

“Goodbye, Regulus,” Sirius says.


	22. Tethered - Petunia and Lily

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Christmas Character Challenge by The Kawaii Neko  
> 5 – Presents – write about Petunia Dursley

“I’ve got you at last,” Petunia says, voice thrumming joyfully, “you can’t escape me now!”

Beneath her, Lily moves, eyes opening the merest fraction, revealing glimpses of vivid green. She turns her head upwards, follows the path of the wispy clouds overhead, casting feathery shadows on the grass below them. “I’m trapped,” she says, and the hint of a wicked grin graces her lips.

Petunia watches, breathless, as Lily wiggles round onto her knees, dusting sprigs of heather from her skirts, then tugs at her wrists and ankles. A frown mars the smoothness of her forehead when the bonds on her limbs hold fast. She cocks her head, inspecting the intertwined strands of grass and hay that form the ropes that bind her to the earth.

“You’ve tied me up,” Lily says accusingly.

“You were asleep!”

Lily huffs out a laugh, twisting her torso to align with Petunia. “I can get free any time I like.”

Petunia wrinkles her nose. “I’d like to see you try!”

Another futile tug, but the ropes still hold. Lily stares at her wrists, concentrating so hard that her eyes shrink to mere slits, lips pushed out, teeth sinking into pink flesh like crabs into quicksand. Petunia’s breath turns into ice in her lungs, catching her by the ribs and squeezing her heart.

Lily murmurs under her breath, and her eyes are tinged gold.

Then, just like that, the ropes snap.

An electric shock courses up Petunia’s spine, and she rubs at her eyes in disbelief. “What? Lily – what – but – but that’s just impossible.”

With another wicked grin, Lily snaps her fingers, and the rope crumbles into dust. “It’s magic,” she says gleefully.

“Rubbish,” Petunia parries back, scornfully, automatically. “Magic doesn’t exist. If you can do it, I can do it, too.” Catching up another strand of grass and hay, she weaves it into a thick braid, deft and quick despite her sister’s burning stare on her fingers. A strong twist around a nearby stick, and she burrows it into the ground, securing it tightly. Sitting on her haunches, she stares at her hands, just as Lily had, praying – commanding – the braid to unknot.

She stares until blackness crowds the peripheries of her vision, and her eyes begin to water with pain. _Please – please – snap –_

Even _abracadabra –_

The rope remains immobile on her skin.

Lily shifts slightly, and Petunia blinks. In one violent swinging arc, she rips the rope from the earth and her skin, tearing the fine hairs on the inside of her wrist, and flings the entire thing as far as her arm can throw. It disappears into the long yellowing grass on the other side of the stream, where the cobbled streets and grey-slate roofs of Cokeworth stretch out like snakes beneath the sun.

“Tuney – Tuney, please” –

Petunia bites her lip against the tears threatening to flow, swallows down the lump in her throat.

“Look.” Lily holds out a flower; velvet pink and purple blue, curled over and spotted with minute fur. She brings it, closer and closer, like tide creeping upon the sand, until it rubs against Petunia’s finger, the petals closing softly over her hand.

It feels like a steel vice wrapped around her, crushing every last drop of blood from her flesh.

Fear bubbles in her stomach like lava in a volcano. She backs away, tripping over her feet, and watches the shadow come down over Lily’s eyes. It lasts but a moment, and then the sunshine is back, touching those green eyes, turning red braids to gold, transforming her face into something noble and serene.

Lily giggles, lark-like, and runs over the meadow, launching herself into the air without any support, skirts fluttering, body thrown into the lithe, agile angles of a ballerina, perfectly controlled. She ascends, higher and higher, spiralling into the blue, until her the notes of her laughter are lost amongst the clouds.

And Petunia follows, always two steps behind; booted feet clumsy, clomping into the dank, damp earth.


	23. Long Nights - Winky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Christmas Character Challenge by The Kawaii Neko  
> 16 – Eggnog – write about Winky

Soon, Master will bring Master Barty home from Azkaban, and he’ll be with Winky where he belongs, oh yes.

Winky remembers the day Master Barty was born, oh yes she does. Winky’s mother was in attendance then, and Mistress was took ill suddenly in the middle of the night. But Master wouldn’t go to St Mungo’s, oh no he wouldn’t; proper proud about doing everything his own way, he was. Winky was only three years old, and wasn’t allowed upstairs, but all night Winky sat by the raging fire in the kitchen and listened to Mistress moaning and wailing the roof down above.

Seven hours in and Winky thought Mistress won’t last the night, but suddenly there’s silence and then the wail of a newborn baby.

Mistress and Master Barty don’t treat Winky different after Winky’s mother’s death. Master works high-up at the Ministry, out all hours of the day and night. Master’s proper cross most of the time and likes Winky to keep her place, but he’s a good master, fair and Winky’s proper provided for, food and a small cot in the pantry and a present every Christmas.

Master Barty were different, oh yes he was, from the time he were a wee one rushing about in the kitchen and playrooms. Winky smiles more than she ever do before he comes, and Mistress is still ailing; she has never been right since Master Barty was born, so it’s Winky who feeds him and washes him and teaches him games and spells and words.

Master Barty grows up into a proper handsome lad, lithe and fair glowing with creamy skin, and Winky feels great pride every time she runs a comb through that reddish mop of hair, oh yes she does. And then Master Barty goes off to Hogwarts and every week there’s a letter back home to Master and Mistress, and it’s all good news, oh yes it is; how happy he’s there, and how he’s getting the best marks in all those classes and Master Barty has always had a knack for Quidditch, oh yes and he’ll be the best Seeker Hufflepuff has ever seen, oh yes he will.

At the end of fourth year, Master Barty brings home a guest for Christmas. Master Regulus is almost as beautiful as Master Barty, all silky black hair and pale skin, and he’s kind too, kinder to Winky than she’d expect any Black to be. He sits stiller than Master Barty when she combs through his hair, and gives Winky a nice warm Butterbeer as a thank you present.

Master is out more and more, because there’s an evil wizard called You-Know-Who rising sudden, killing all the Muggleborns and Muggles. Master fights day and night, and isn’t back of a Sunday as he used to be. Once Winky found him creeping home in the dead of night, shivering something dreadful and robes all soaked in blood.

Master covers the windows with protection spells and bars the doors and the fireplaces and wraps the garden perimeter round with double strength wards, and Mistress don’t seem to notice, but there’s nasty rumours flyin’ round; and You-Know-Who’s offered freedom to House Elves. Winky don’t need freedom, oh no she don’t, but sometimes she wonders what it’d be like, proper clothes and wages and all.

It’d do for a nutter like Dobby, surely.

Then life goes all downhill.

Master Regulus dies, suddenly, and Winky sits cold and shivering at the service – no funeral, because they can’t find the body, feeding that old grump of Kreacher sips of Butterbeer while Dobby waffles on about socks and elf rights on her left. He’s a bad elf to be thinking such things and Winky’s told him so, but he’s never been one for listening.

Master Barty’s eyes turn blank and cold after that, and he’s never home of a night after Hogwarts gives out.

That awful night is the worst of Winky’s short life, oh yes it is, and the wailing is even worse than the night when Master Barty was born.

But now Master Barty is in Azkaban, and Mistress is dying. Winky wishes she could be with Master Barty, that’s her true and proper place, oh yes. But Master is clever, and he’ll get Master Barty home.

Time doesn’t matter anymore; Winky do her duty and be here by the hearth with a warm meal on the plate and a bottle of Butterbeer, and she’ll comb the tangles out of his hair again, and wash away the stench of prison with saffron milk and vetiver and vervain.


End file.
